Author and Inspired Writer

…I know what I ought to do, but I don’t know where to begin!  I came across this quote by Stephen Bayne this morning and I thought it apropos of my current situation.  However, dear readers, you’ll be pleased to know I am getting caught up, albeit slowly.

The last weekend in November saw me at the Vollmer Complex in LaSalle as part of the homegrown talent event put on by the Windsor Endowment for the Arts.  It was wonderful!  All the crafters, sculptors, painters, jewellery makers, bands, and even a few literary types like me.  In fact, I shared a booth with Vanessa Shields, Robert Earl Stewart, and Mary Ann Mulhern and it was delightful getting to know these three mega-talented poets better.  And it was at our booth I witnessed true magic.

Vanessa and Bob decided to do something called “Poetry on Demand.”  (They had a banner ‘n everything!)  People would come up to our table, draw three words out of a basket Vanessa had prepared ahead of time, and then add three words of their own in a kind of word association.  Then our two master poets asked them to go browse the other booths for about ten minutes and come back to pick up their poem.  I couldn’t believe the work they produced!  If I might be trite for just a moment – it was awesome!  The people would return and Bob and Vanessa would read their poems to them and they just loved them!  Smiles and laughter and pure delight on their faces.  It was magical.  They talked me into trying my hand at it, just once, and I can’t remember ever doing anything so difficult!  Not to mention stressful!  So I politely declined further experimentation and left such mystical spell-weaving to the wizards.

Stupid busy.  Yes girls and boys, I have been stupid busy lately, but in a very, very good way!  So much to write about, so I’ll only hit on one event for now.

Two weeks ago, (wow, two weeks already?) I was privileged to participate in a roundtable discussion at a class in memoir writing taught by Vanessa Shields.  There’s something I won’t soon forget.  The students, all women, were without a doubt, some of the most courageous people I have ever met.  As they shared their stories throughout the night I kept thinking “You have no right to complain about anything ever again!”  And truly, my life has been a day at the beach in comparison to what these women have suffered.  And now they are taking pen in hand to write their stories to heal themselves, yes, but to comfort others too who will read their books.  Vanessa shared an encounter with a bookstore owner who deemed memoirists “self-indulgent.”  What astonishing arrogance and ignorance!  If he ever has the opportunity to  read these stories, he will, if he has any heart, immediately take back his hasty words and apologize.  These women and those like them, as I said in an email, are our teachers and mentors, healers and prophets.  Thank God for their lives, thank God for their stories, and thank God for their courage.

Hey all you wonderful patrons of the arts, the Windsor Endowment for the Arts is hosting a celebration of home-grown talent at the Vollmer Culture and Recreation Complex at 2121 Laurier Dr. in LaSalle, Nov. 25 – 27, Friday 6 pm. to 10 pm., Saturday and Sunday 10 am. to 5 pm.  Local arts and crafts will be showcased and for sale, and performance and entertainment artists will be featured.  Yours-ever-faithfully will be joining Mary Ann Mulhern, Robert Earl Stewart, and Vanessa Shields for a reading on Sunday, from 2 to 3 pm.  We’ll also be there on Saturday and Sunday to sign books and chat with folks.  It sounds like a great time to do some early Christmas shopping and support your local artists.  For more information you can go to www.wea-arts.com or www.town.lasalle.on.ca/leisure/vollmer and I hope to see you there!

If that’s what you think, then I’m afraid you’re very, very wrong.

I know I said I’d be getting back to work on my new manuscript this past week, but ye gods and little fishes!  I let so much slide while preparing for the Poetry Cafe, I simply had to get caught up before I started (or restarted) something new.  I just couldn’t ignore the dust bunnies rolling down the hallway like tumbleweed anymore.  (You think I’m kidding, huh?  Wrong again.)

And then the dear old bod started sending me signals that it needed a bit more downtime.  So, the order of the day is, if I don’t sleep well at night, I sleep in the next morning.  This has wreaked havoc with my schedule and has led to a startling revelation which came about in this wise…

Last Thursday, I worked sorting stuff for my church’s rummage sale.  Ah rummage sales!  How I do love them!  My mother, God rest her, was horrified when she learned that was where I bought my clothes, and if they were just castoffs, well, I’d say maybe she had a point.  But no, these are beautiful pieces, some designer labels, and some with the tags still on – never worn!  And the women in my church just love to dress me up like their very own Barbie doll.  At first it was just, we found something we think you’ll like.  And then it was, we have a few things we picked out for you.  And this time – “You see that huge box over there full of clothes, well, it’s yours!”  I take it all home, try it on, and then wash whatever I decide to keep, much of it by hand.  And then I dry it.  Outside.  But for some reason our clothesline disappeared years ago and we’ve never replaced it.  So how do I dry my beautiful dresses, you ask?  Uh, well, promise you won’t judge me?  I hang them on the backyard trees.

Now you know.

Thursday night was not a good night for me sleep-wise, so I slept in Friday morning and naturally everything got pushed back.  But I was determined to wash my dresses because I wanted to wear one on Sunday, and because Friday was a gorgeous day – a rare occurence around here lately.  And that’s when my revelation happened.  I was hanging the dresses on the trees like some kind of ghostly Halloween decorations when the Mister came back from running errands downtown.  He walked over to me and asked why I looked so pensive.

“We really are white trash, aren’t we?” I replied.

“What do you mean ‘we’?” he countered.

“Well, OK, I’m white trash.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Well,” I said, “I’m hanging my clothes on the backyard trees instead of a clothesline…”

“Yeah…”

“And,” I continued, “it’s a quarter past two in the afternoon, and I’m still in my bathrobe.  White trash?”

He put his arm around me and kissed the side of my head.

“‘Fraid so, Ma.  C’mon into the kitchen and I’ll fix y’all some vittles.”

No help for it.  Anyhoo, I’m hoping next week I’ll get back to writing.  I’ll let you know.